Okay, okay. I confess.
I’m a romantic.
I mean, it shouldn’t be that big of deal, right? I mean, say you were to randomly get on a free matchmaking site right now and scroll through a dating profile at random. I bet you any Nicholas Sparks movie I own that the person in question mentions enjoying at least one classic “romantic” outing (let’s say, candlelight dinner at secluded little known ethnic restaurant where the proprietor knows your name).
It’s likely that we all subscribe, at least a little bit, to the Hollywood/Harlequin-established standards of romance. We must, or else we wouldn’t have a holiday devoted to romance, with entire grocery store aisles filled with champagne, boxes of chocolate, and cards for every type of relationship milestone.
The thing is . . . I’ve probably subscribed a little more than most to the quintessential ideals of romance, a decision that has not only affected my relationship with romantic partners, but also my relationship with God.
Take my first boyfriend, S.
Let’s just say that for a girl who had read every romance novel she could find in the YA and Christian romance sections of her public library, I came pretty late into the whole boyfriend thing (I blame my twin brother, who greeted the first guy to ever take me to a high school dance dressed in full army fatigues and carrying a machete—sorry, Pat H., wherever you are). S. and I met our senior year.
If Mattel could have created a “Perfect High School Boyfriend” product, S. would totally have been their go-to model. He was tall, dark, handsome, unapologetic about his commitment to his faith, treated me with respect, and was well-liked by my parents. He was romantic in every way a high school boyfriend is supposed to be. He cooked me an elaborate Italian dinner for my birthday, pulled out all of the stops for prom (which included an epic make-out in front of the Washington Monument), and not only wrote me the most beautiful love notes, but also got me jewelry for no reason at all.
I know, people. The guy was a catch.
Still, all of the romance novels I had read and movies I had seen had told me that a true romantic relationship always involved a “spark.” Something that tells the protagonist, unequivocally, that the guy she’s with? He’s the one. But, while I had felt the spark at the beginning of S and my relationship, it started to fade as the months progressed. What was the point of dating a guy if the romantic feelings I was supposed to be feeling weren’t there?
So, I broke things off with S. (even though my friends told me I was making a huge mistake), telling myself that if the “spark” had so easily faded with this guy who was actively fulfilling all of my romantic ideals on a regular basis, then it wasn’t meant to last with anyone. It was safer to bury myself in books and TV and unrealistic ideals of grandiose romantic moments than to fight to ascertain whether or not S. and I would find that spark again.
Similarly, up until recently, I had a pretty great relationship with God. I was baptized, received the Eucharist, and was confirmed at the appropriate age. I enjoyed my religion courses in college and often found myself talking to my friends about God and our individual beliefs. My relationship with God had that “spark.” I couldn’t imagine not feeling close to God or being able to count on our loving relationship.
However, over the past two years some pretty awful things have happened to me. Things that went beyond normal fights with friends or small medical issues or job challenges. Things that shook the core of who I am as a person and hurt me on such a deeply emotional level that I’m not even sure years of therapy will help me sort through it all. Things that have shook my faith in the goodness of people, have made me question my purpose on Earth, and have made me wonder if I’m loveable at all. I stopped wanting to go to Mass or put time into prayer because, well . . . what would be the point? I had opened myself up to God and had begged him for help and guidance, and things in my life had only gotten worse. What would be the point of continuing a relationship where I felt like I was doing everything I was supposed to be doing (prayer, Mass, reaching out my parish priest, reaching out to friends, reading books on spiritual reflection), and God didn’t appear to be pouring anything into the relationship in turn? As far as I was concerned, the spark I felt for God was gone and it was time—as it had been with S.—to cut him from my life.
Then, it occurred to me that my concept of what I was supposed to be feeling in my relationships—those feelings of ease, excitement, anticipation, and utter rightness—was absolutely wrong. Unlike the Hollywood films and Harlequin romances I had poured through growing up, relationships include pain, discomfort, doubt, and a lot of communication and hard work.
I couldn’t expect to always have a “spark” with God, or expect him to be present to me in the same fairytalesque way he had early in our relationship. Our relationship needed to deepen and evolve in order to grow, and I was running the moment that things didn’t feel natural or easy. I had done the same thing to S. I knew that we were heading off to college and that a long distance relationship would be hard and time-consuming, and so I had taken the easy way out by blaming it on our “spark” fading. Frankly, I wasn’t doing enough to flame the embers of our relationship. I realized that I couldn’t do the same to God.
Our relationship with God takes work. I’m not sure where my “love story” with God will take me, or even when I’ll start to feel we are on the same page again, but I’m willing to put in the effort to get it back to where it once was. Perhaps I’ll again feel that same euphoria I once felt with God, and I’ll be able to look back on this period of my life and see it for what it is—a rough patch.
After all, I’m a romantic. I believe in the impossible, which means one day, I’ll reach for the faith that previously flowed through me with ease and it will be there.
